


Happy First (of April)

by deathmarkedlove_archivist



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-29
Updated: 2007-01-29
Packaged: 2019-01-10 18:11:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12304794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathmarkedlove_archivist/pseuds/deathmarkedlove_archivist
Summary: Celebrate the first of April. Buffy’s style.





	Happy First (of April)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Hils, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Death-Marked Love](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Death-Marked_Love). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Death-Marked Love collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/deathmarkedlove/profile).

The weapon cabinet was very large, and made of dark stained oak. In fact it nearly looked antique. Mr. Giles had brought it over from England when he first arrived here, and it had always been there, ever since Buffy remembered. Walking up to it in strong strides, she turned the old knob and creaked the large doors open.

Running her fingers along the cool glass casing, she admired the gleamy weaponry within. In slow and deliberate movements she opened the case up and fondled her various choices; quarterstaff, crossbow, heavy mallet, flail. All so beautiful and tempting. Each tools of her trade; each for getting the job done a certain way, specializing. For death was her art, her craft; and these were her medias. So familiar to her, each of them, like old friends, she first tried out the feel of the crossbow in her hands, and than the quarterstaff, experimenting with how they all individually made her feel, their capabilities and their flaws. Her hazel eyes were drawn to the row of wooden stakes, and she now took a turn to admire them, each one perfectly pointed and ready for use, little marvels of ingenuity in their simplicity, crafted and used for just one single purpose; the dusting of vampiric demons.

Absent-mindedly she wondered what kind of wood they had been yielded from, as she ran a finger down the lot of them, waiting until one cried out to her in a little voice,

Yes! I am the one to be used tonight! I will bring you victory!

And she would snatch it up, smiling politely at it, and give it a test toss into the air, sending it spinning point over handle, until it fell Earthwards again and she caught it soundly in her right hand. Yes. This one will do just fine for tonight, she thought merrily, her eyes sparkling at the anticipation.

Hiding her new-found companion snugly in her inside-jacket pocket, she now roamed to the opposite side of the weapon cabinet, slowly letting her hands follow the path down to the very, very bottom, were dust had collected.

And finding there, a tiny old metal handle, she tugged at it. After a groan of protest, it gave way, and slowly, the slim, long drawer pulled out. It was lined with a very dark green felt and looked as if it had not been opened for centuries.

Buffy didn’t know how many of her friends knew of this particular slot; it was just a nifty extra the cabinet had that she found one day and kept small items in, special things for safe-keeping. Now she respectfully picked up the object of her desire, gazing at it a moment, as if giving it deep thought. It was another wooden stake, darker in hue than the others, obviously carved from older wood. Running the edge of it against her cheek, she nodded to herself, like deciding something, and stowed this beauty away in her other internal pocket. Carefully sliding the drawer back into place she closed up the cabinet, giving the flail a look of apology before doing so, as she really had been tempted to bring it that night. Sorry, pal, we’ll go out later.

And then they were in darkness again.

He was just sort of staring blankly off into space-he had been sitting like that for the past hour or so, in fact. And then; he sensed her coming. He wasn’t quite sure at first how he knew-almost just a tingle at the back of his head, like his own private Slayer-detection system. Hell, maybe all vampires could do that, or maybe it was just his intense fixation on her that made him so sensitive to her presence, her psyche, the aurora that seemed to be about her as she moved, like the air was burning from her intensity. He didn’t know, but the next thing he could do was hear her, a faint pitter-patter of a heartbeat and a flicker of footsteps outside, and at last, smell the so very subtle aroma; oh, yes, she was certainly in Slayer-mode all right, her heckles raised, the adrenaline in her system flowing. Odd, though, as no trace of blood or vampire about her; she had not run into enemy yet this night. It must be, then, he reasoned, anticipation that had her all jumped up.

And then she was actually here; the door slammed open with the force of her pent-up energy, and he did not flinch as this happened, as he knew she was coming. He always knew.

And now she was whirling dangerously into his crypt, and he finally turned to face her; she was not armed but obviously had a concealed weapon, most likely a stake, by the way she kept her hand nearby her jacket-pocket, and she moved with such a purpose, eyes pinning him down as she stormed up to face him.

He blinked at her, standing there calmly, simply watching as she approached, neither knowing her visit’s goal nor wondering. He just watched her; always watched her. Watched and stalked and followed since he set eyes on her. He never stopped watching. It seemed all he ever did, all he was ever capable of; because to touch her, oh, so difficult to reach her; she hummed about like an angry wasp and recoiled fiercely at any kind gesture from him, reacted violently at any attack. She had placed herself high above him-he was beneath her, and as he gazed up to marvel at her, could never reach high enough, and only watch, and wish, and dream, and long for. . . The deadly creature, like a poisonous butterfly flitting about the heavens, imaging what it would be like to have her for his own. To one day, see her perfect flight fumble, and have her fall down to him; or perhaps, even better yet, just one time, a mad and blind grab at the sky actually work-and to of caught the prize, to hold in his hands.

But golden flecks set on an auburn background, such beauty would never be his, the vampire realized as he watched her eyes bore into his own. She shifted her stance and spoke.

"You know why I’m here? "

The vampire blinked slowly and shook his head a soft ‘no’. He acted gentle and quiet in nature at the moment, as if tamed down because of his sadness. She shifted again, appearing to grow uncomfortable at his tranquillity.

"What’s matter, chip got your tongue? "

He scowled, her attempt to get under his skin succeeding.

"Very busy at the moment with some very important work, " he explained, referring to his blank wall staring contest of earlier,

"So will you make this snappy? "

"I’ll make it as long as I want to, Spike. "

"What do you want? "

She glared at him with venom.

"I expected you to me happier to see me. " she said, making it sound far too serious in order for Spike to tell what she meant by it.

"Happy? " he echoed in disbelief.

"You bitch, you say you never want to see me again and then you’re back here. What. . . what is wrong with you? "

He looked at her scornfully, and she still had the hard Slayer exterior about her and little sign of anything else.

She gave a short, cold laugh. "Feeling fine, Spike. I don’t think I’m the one with a problem. Got any ideas yet? "

"To what? "

"As to why I’m here. "

He scoffed. "No, and I don’t care. Why don’t you just shamble on outta here now, huh? Go play with your friends. "

"Wouldn’t talk like that if I were you. I am the Slayer, you know. "

He smiled. "Stop tryin’ to kid me, Slayer, it gets old. "

"You don’t think I’m serious? " she challenged.

He shrugged. Then thought about it. "No. I don’t. "

"And why not? "

"Because. Not now. You wouldn’t just whip out and stake me. "

"I’m a Slayer. You’re a vampire. Seems like no biggie to me. "

He shook his head, speaking with conviction. "No, it doesn’t work that way. How many chances have you had to stake me before? Dozens. More than dozens. But you don’t. You can’t. "

She tilted her head at him. "You sound pretty damn sure of yourself, Spike, " she said daringly.

"But let me assure you, I’m perfectly capable of staking you. "

He shook his head again. "No. Not now, not like this. You couldn’t. When we’re fighting, yeah, but not when we’re just talking. "

"I see, " she said, and then her voice lowered to a dangerous whisper.

"Spike, let me tell you what I think. . . "

He smiled slightly, and leaned down a bit to hear better, as if humoring her.

Whipping into action, Buffy’s stake suddenly found it’s mark deep into Spike’s undead heart. He stared back at her, his face a picture of pure shock.

"B-. . . . Buffy. . . . " he rasped.

Hand still gripping the stake she had rammed into him, she smiled and pecked him on the cheek.

"I think you can’t count on knowing me, " she said sweetly, and spinning on her heel, turned and marched out.

Spike watched her retrieving forum as he felt the cells in his body begin to deteriorate, and crumble away to dust.

But. . .

But the turning to dust part never actually happened. . .

Spike blinked, realizing he still wasn’t . . . gone.

He looked down at the stake embedded deep into his chest. God! It hurt like Hell! His entire chest burned like fire. Blood was quickly leaking out of the wound. And he knew it was driven directly into his heart because he could feel it all the way in there. But. . . he was still here.

The vampire tugged at the stake and winced, doubling over in pain. Sitting on the floor he waited a few moments for the pounding in his brain to subside slightly, and then, counted slowly to ten, before giving a furious yell as he violently tore the stake free.

He blacked out after that due to the pain of that motion, but when he awoke again, found himself on the floor in a pool of his own blood, still there. Not dusted.

Slowly he dragged himself to a sitting position by leaning against the wall, and picked up the stake beside him, looking at it in wonder.

Feeling grooves in the handle, he turned it around and inspected it closer. It was engraved with words-he squinted at them.

April Fools, Spike

"What the bloody hell does that mean? "

He winced as he said that out loud, the wound still feeling none too good. He continued to examine the stake. For what he could tell, besides that carving, it was your typical wooden stake, long, made of wood, sharp at one end. . .

Hey. He felt the point of the stake again; it was smooth. Placing it against his skin it was chilling cold against his slightly warmer skin. Giving it one last test, he reached out and struck the bedpost nearby with it, giving off a ringing sound as he did so.

Metal.

The tip of the stake wasn’t wood, only the handle was. The rest was metal.

He chuckled, and immediately regretted it, his chest feeling like it set fire again. She had staked him with a phony stake.

He touched his cheek were she had kissed him, shaking his head.

What a bitch.


End file.
